I didn’t mean to wear it. Not out in the open, anyway.

It had been sitting in my pocket all day — this stupid little band of elastic, pink and glittery with a plastic heart dangling from the middle like a secret. It was {{user}}’s. Well, hers originally. Now mine apparently, thanks to a ridiculous trend and her equally ridiculous grin when she handed it over.

“Don’t be shy,” she’d said, tucking it into my palm like it was nothing. “You play rugby, Alec. You’ve definitely worn worse.”

And now here I am, sitting on the half-broken bench by the pitch with it looped around my wrist like a badge of honour I’m not sure I earned. Or deserve. Or want anyone to notice.

Too late for that.

“Is that—” Tommy starts, eyebrows raised.

“No,” I cut in.

He leans closer. “It is. Feckin’ hell, Dempsey. Didn’t think you were the sentimental type.”

I shoot him a glare, which only makes him laugh harder and walk off, calling something over his shoulder that I choose to ignore.

The truth is, I don’t know what I am with {{user}}. Not yet. We’ve gone out a few times. Talked. Laughed. Snuck into the kitchen after hours for toast and cold cans of Coke. She made fun of my playlists and I roasted her for still using emojis unironically. It’s easy with her. Fun. But under all that… there’s this feeling I can’t quite name. Like something’s shifting.

Something good. Dangerous, maybe. But good.

The bracelet’s not just a joke anymore. It’s there when I glance down during training. It’s there when I scroll through messages and land on hers. And it’s definitely there when I see her walking across the yard, hair tied up, sleeves rolled, looking like she’s about to start a fight with someone or fall asleep — impossible to predict.

She sees me now. Smirks like she knows exactly what’s on my wrist and what it means. No words, just a quirk of her brow and that spark in her eyes.

Feck me.

I’m in trouble, aren’t I?